


Worth Them All

by Linguini



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Carolyn is a perceptive as ever, Depression, Douglas is very very private, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Martin learns some things, and has more friends than he knows, and shows off others he knows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-22 17:23:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2515754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linguini/pseuds/Linguini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin moves in with Douglas for a while and learns some things in the process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worth Them All

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to c3mf, sproid, pudu, and mxdp who have listened to me complain about this fic for nearly six months now. It being completed is all down to them.

It hadn’t been thirty seconds since she’d set her hands in the dough to start kneading before “The Flight of the Bumblebees” rang out through her kitchen. With a sigh, Carolyn hastily wiped off one hand enough to swipe the phone on and called across, “What do you want, Martin? No, Gertie’s not ready yet. No, she won’t be ready for another three weeks. No, the maintainers can’t work any faster, and no I don’t have the exact technical specifications of what the part did, but you’re more than welcome to contact whatever barrister the CAA arranged to handle the suit for us and ask them directly, so long you don’t end up reversing the judgment because then I really will have to strangle you. No, I am not getting a replacement plane so we can fly while Gertie’s out of commission. And no, you cannot use the Portakabin as an interim headquarters for Dunderhead Removals or whatever you call that operation of yours. Did I get them all?” 

There was a silence on the other line, then Martin’s sheepish voice. “And some I’d not thought of. But in any case, that wasn’t why I was calling. I mean, I’d much rather be flying, of course, but as long as Gertie’s down for maintenance, I can do some jobs for Icarus. I just wanted to let you know that I’ll not be living in my room for a bit.” 

“Oh?” Carolyn asked, already uninterested in the conversation, but willing to tolerate it for the moment. “Been invited to stay at the palace, have you?”

“N-no,” Martin said. “I-- It appears there’s some sort of mould growing, and so I’ve had to move out. I’ve been refunded my rent, but I’ll be living somewhere else. I wanted you to know in case Gertie’s done early and we get a flight.”

Carolyn pondered that a moment as she shaped the dough into loaves. “Don’t do that,” she said finally. “Go ask Douglas.”

“What?! No! I have enough. I can live on my own.”

“I’m sure you can. Go ask him anyway.” 

Martin huffed. “No. I don’t need his help. I’ll find a hotel room or something and I’ll let you know where I end up.

“Martin Crieff,” she said, adding a bit of steel to her tone. “Listen to me. Go and ask Douglas if you can stay with him. I’m not paying a taxi to try to hunt you out in whatever rathole you manage to find, nor am I willing to risk you contracting consumption in some flophouse downtown and leaving me bereft of my only safe pilot.”

Another bit of silence down the line, then a reluctant, “Fine. But if I’m not putting up with….with anything. If he goes too far, I’m leaving.”

“Yes, yes, alright.” She’d already dismissed him and was putting the loaf pans in the oven. “Goodbye, Martin.” And she hung up on him.

\--------

Surprisingly (or perhaps not, given his propensity for shirking work), Douglas didn’t answer his phone when Martin called. The Lexus was in the drive when he showed up, but the house was dark and quiet, even though it was more-or-less 10:07 when Martin checked his watch. Knocking yielded no First Officer, but ringing the bell earned him the sound of feet on the stairs and muffled grumbling.

The Douglas that opened the door was still clad in pyjamas and dressing gown, barefoot and clearly only barely awake. “What do you want?” he growled, standing in the doorway and glaring at Martin, hair flopping over his forehead.

Martin gaped at him a moment. “Are you alright?”

“I’m terrific,” Douglas said. “ _What_ do you _want_?” His face at least cleared quickly and he began to take on some of his usual imperiousness.

“I’ve had to move out for a bit,” Martin told him. “There’s mould growing in the house, and the landlord’s kicked us out. Carolyn said to ask you if I could stay here--she doesn’t want to pay for a taxi to two places. I could find somewhere else if you’d rather.”

Douglas just blinked at him a moment, then stepped aside and didn’t say anything at all. Martin hesitated, then picked up his suitcase and followed him in. They walked up the stairs and down the hall, where Douglas showed Martin into a room across from his own bedroom.

“What about Emily? When do you have her next?” Martin asked, hesitating in the hall.

The look Douglas gave him had very little emotion in it at all. “ _Martin_. My daughter is nearly twenty. We don’t do visitations anymore--if she wants to visit, she does so like any other adult, and she calls. I’ll see her next when I see her next.” He swept his hand into the room. “Until then, the room is yours, for as long as you need it. Bath’s there--” he pointed to the next door, “--towels in the cabinet beside the sink. Plenty of hot water.” He scrubbed a bit at the back of his head. “You know where things are downstairs--help yourself. I’m going for a shower.” And with that, he headed into his room and shut the door, though not before Martin caught a glimpse of several baskets of unfolded laundry and an unmade bed.

A bit at loose ends, Martin stowed his bag at the foot of the bed and wandered down to the kitchen, starting the kettle for tea. The lack of anything for his hands to do grew irksome after only a few seconds, so he started on the dishes in the sink, washing them using as little water as possible and stacking them neatly on the worktop for Douglas to put away when he came down. When he heard the shower go off, he pulled down another mug and made tea for Douglas, leaving it on the table for him before wandering into the sitting room. He checked his watch again, then pulled out his phone to confirm the time of that afternoon’s moves. After nearly an hour of calls, Douglas still hadn’t come downstairs, so he went up.

“Douglas,” he said as he tapped on the door gently. “I have two jobs this afternoon. I’ll be back around seven, if...if that’s alright.”

There was a bit of silence, then Douglas appeared, looking much the same as before. “You don’t have to ask permission,” he said. “I’m neither your father nor your parole officer. In fact--” He disappeared back into his room.

Martin followed tentatively, watching as Douglas moved aside the book he’d set down with the pages open to dig in the drawers of his nightstand, pulling out a key and handing it to Martin. “This is to the kitchen door. I leave the front door locked. The Nadarahjans next door have a spare if you lose it.”

“Wh-- Oh, yes. Thank you.” Martin took the key and tried to pretend as if he hadn’t been looking around the room and taking in the uncharacteristic untidiness. “You’ve been busy, then? Out with the lads?”

“Not at all,” Douglas said. “Taking the opportunity to get in some reading I’ve been meaning to get to, one or two chores around the house needed doing. Those sorts of things.”

“Ah.” Martin shifted his weight from foot to foot, then gave a small smile. “Well...I’ll be going. Wouldn’t do to be late. Want me to bring anything back from the shops?”

Douglas shrugged. “Anything in particular you want to eat. I have most of the staples, but feel free to bring whatever your heart fancies.”

“Alright,” Martin said and stood there a moment longer than was socially comfortable before saying “I’ll be going then,” and letting himself out.

\-------

The jobs weren’t strenuous, but the cross-town moves and the bit of extra Martin earned by offering to take one of the client’s dry cleaning in on his way back to Douglas’s meant he didn’t get home until nearly eight. “Just me,” he said as he let himself in.

“Who else would it be?” Douglas asked as he came in carrying his mug and another book, dressing gown discarded in favor of a warm jumper over his pyjamas. “Mrs. Waller’s in bed for the night, Emily’s in Canada, and burglars don’t tend to use keys to enter.” He flicked on the kettle and dug out tea bags, sugar, and milk. “Tea?”

Martin nodded and set the bags of food he’d brought on the table. “I stopped back by the house and picked up what was left in the kitchen. Rigsby thinks it’ll be a month at least before we’re let back in.” If he expected Douglas to be upset or annoyed, he was disappointed--he took the news with the same equanimity he took most everything.

“As long as you need,” he repeated, helping Martin pull out the boxes and cans and add them to his own supplies. When they’d finished, Douglas settled at the table with his book and mug while Martin made himself a tin of beans and they sat in comfortable silence for a long while.

Finally, while he was washing his dishes, Martin noticed the dry bowls near the door. “Where’s Astrid?” he asked.

Douglas didn’t even look up from his book. “With Mrs. Waller. She broke her hip, and needed some company.” He threw off the gesture of kindness the same way he might have given a weather report or answered a question about the post arriving.

“Ah.” Martin had nothing to say to that, so didn’t even try. “Well,” he said after a long silence “I should go...set things up, I suppose.”

A wordless grunt was all he got from Douglas, who had buried his head back in his novel.

Martin patted the table once. “Good night.” He spent the rest of the evening putting his clothes away in drawers and setting few personal items out on the shelves. He could already feel the tension of the house settling between his shoulder blades, an unfamiliar unease with a man he spent so much of his waking life with. It wasn’t much later before he heard the sounds of Douglas heading to bed and the house settling into the hushed silence of nightfall as he climbed under the duvet and reviewed his jobs for the next day before tumbling to sleep.

\--------

The next fortnight passed the same way. Martin was gone more than he was around, cramming as many jobs as he could into the day, to build up a cushion in his bank balance before a return to semi-regular flying meant he was forced to live on reserves again. Not having to pay rent or utilities helped, though he managed to convince Douglas to take some money towards the bills. In truth, it had taken less convincing than he’d expected, and while Douglas hadn’t capitulated immediately, he also hadn’t put up much of a fight.

In fact, Douglas hadn’t shown much emotion at all about anything. Most of the time, Martin found him reading or, rarely, poking at the piano when he came back from jobs, but it wasn’t with any real passion or zest, just as something to pass the time. Slowly, Martin began to take notice of more of the tiny details that signaled a slightly-off Douglas.

It started with green peppers. Two of them, to be precise, which Douglas had clearly bought with the intention of using, but instead had grown some sort of white fuzz sitting in their bowl on the worktop and had to be thrown out by Martin. Then the eggs, which always seemed to be a perfect dozen until Martin used two, then were ten, until Martin took another two, then were eight and so on until Martin had used them all and bought a new dozen only to start over, eating every egg himself. In fact, very little of the foodstuffs in the house seemed to be dwindling, save the tea, and accoutrements thereof, the biscuits, and the carton of orange juice.

“Douglas,” Martin asked one evening as he was reheating soup on the hob. “Do you want some? This is more than I’m going to eat.” 

“No, thank you,” came the answer from the sitting room. “I’m fine.”

Martin hummed a bit. “I bet you had something even better for dinner. What was it? Salmon? Steak?”

Douglas came in, carrying the mug that never seemed to leave his side anymore. “Wasn’t hungry tonight, actually. Just a couple of biscuits and some tea did me.” He set the dirty mug on the table and pulled the sleeves of his pyjamas to settle properly on his wrists. “I’m off to bed. Good night.” And he was gone.

Martin glared at the mug as if it had personally offended him and pondered ferociously over his tomato bisque mixed with some of Douglas’s sour cream. Finally, he dug out his phone and called Carolyn. “What do you know about Douglas?” he asked, when she’d answered and they’d dispensed with the niceties.

“More than I ever cared to,” she said. “You’ll have to narrow it down.”

He narrowed his eyes, dangerous to do at a Carolyn--even over a phone. “You know what I mean. Why were you so insistent I come stay with him? Why did you want me here? What’s wrong with him?”

“I told you--it’s basic maths. A taxi to one place is cheaper than a taxi to two.” Her voice gave nothing away. “And don’t make that face. The wind will shift and it’ll stick that way.”

“How did you-- Nevermind. I’m serious,” he insisted. “You know something, something about why Douglas is….the way he is. Something that made you want to make sure I was here. What is it?”

“Martin,” she said. “Think long and hard. Is this really a conversation you want to be having sitting where you’re sitting right now?”

He sighed and picked up his bowl, snagging Douglas’s dirty mug as he went. “No,” he said sullenly.

“Coffee, tomorrow, that cafe on by the bookshop. 9 o’clock. We’ll talk then.” And without another word, she hung up on him.

Martin grumbled about meddling CEOs and recalcitrant First Officers and thanked the gods for stewards that at least could be counted on to maintain some sort of steadiness and predictability. Douglas’s door was, as it was every night, shut tight when he went to bed and gave no clues as to the mental state of its occupant.

An early morning delivery had Martin scrambling to make their appointment on time. “Sorry, Carolyn,” he said, sliding into the seat where she had his customary coffee and cherry profiterole waiting. “Poodles.”

“It hasn’t rained for ages,” she said. “Where on earth were you? Down by the lake?”

“Not puddles,” he said, taking a sip of his coffee then reaching across for more sugar. “Poodles. Six of them, each more hyper than Arthur after a bag of sweets.”

She grimaced in sympathy and picked apart her own pastry. “A well-earned break, then. Now, tell me about Douglas.”

Martin gave her a weak glare. “Did you send me over there to spy on him? To report back to you?”

“No,” she said, not thrown off at all by his accusation. “You’re the one who called me. So, speak.”

He spent a moment looking out over the field behind the coffee shop, gathering his thoughts. “He’s...off. I don’t know how to explain it. He’s not ill, not that I can see. But I don’t think he’s eating much. Food’s going bad--he’s letting peppers grow mold, cheese and milk go off, that kind of thing. I haven’t heard him play a full song on the piano yet; it’s mostly just snatches of songs here and there, but I don’t have anything to compare that to. He might just not play very often.”

Carolyn shook her head. “That piano was the only thing besides time with Emily he cared about in the divorce. It must mean _something_ to him.” She thought for moment. “So he’s just not hungry. Are you sure he’s not just trying to lose weight? You know he was grumbling about his doctor at the last physical.”

“I’m positive,” Martin said. “Mmmm. What else?” A moment of thought. “He’s not being tidy. He’s only done laundry once in the whole time I’ve been there--he wears the same jumper two or three days in a row, unless they get dirty, which they never seem to, because he never does anything in them, just reads his books. I do the washing up more often than not, not that it matters. If I don’t do it, he doesn’t make enough even to pile up.”

“You must have expected that,” Carolyn said. “Douglas would take any opportunity to get out of work, and having you there is an excuse to have someone else take care of that for him.”

Martin thought that over for a moment. “No, because he’d at least help. He does in the office, anyway. And It’s not like he’s leaving them for me to do. He’s just...leaving them.” He scratched at his wrist idly, frustrated with his ability to articulate his concern. “I can’t really explain it, Carolyn. I just...I think something’s wrong, and I know you must do, too, or you’d not have sent me there. So?”

“So,” she said, and it wasn’t a question. “Martin, what I’m about to tell you I tell you in confidence, alright? Not as the CEO to the captain, not as an owner to a pilot, not even as one in the flying industry to another, alright? This is just two people, talking.” She waited until Martin nodded and leaned closer unconsciously, then focused on pouring herself another cup of tea and started. “Douglas, for as long as I’ve known him, has had these….periods of depression.” She held up a hand to forestall Martin’s protest. “I’m not saying he _has_ depression. Lord knows I’m not qualified to make that kind of diagnosis. Nor would I even attempt to get inside that labyrinth of a Richardsonian mind. All I’m saying is that there have been periods where I’ve noticed that our Douglas is a little less together than others, and that it takes him quite a lot of time and energy to get out of them, more than I think it should, if he’s as hale and hearty as he would like us to believe. Usually, it’s enough to have him on flights with us, that way someone’s keeping an eye on him, and he has something to occupy himself with--a Douglas with too much time on his hands is a dangerous thing. To be honest, I expected him to be running a bookie down at the firehouse, or pulling off half a dozen other schemes. But with Gertie out of the picture, and nothing else on his plate…” She let her voice trail off and took a sip of her tea, watching the sheep wandering through the fields for a moment. 

Martin stirred the swirls of milk through his coffee for a while. “So you used me as a distraction. Thanks for that. Did you ever think that Douglas is a grown man, who might not want us meddling in his affairs?”

She turned a glare on him. “Meddling? Right. Yes. Heaven forfend you show some concern for someone other than yourself.”

“I care about people!” Martin protested. “I just don’t like interfering.”

“There’s a line between interfering and helping, Martin, and let me be the first to assure you you’re nowhere near crossing it. You’re not even in the same county.” 

“Douglas doesn’t need my help. He’s _never_ needed my help. He never needs _anyone’s_ help”

“Maybe what Douglas _needs_ ,” she shot back, “is not to have to ask for help. In any case, you’ve made your feelings on the matter quite clear. Feel free to forget I’ve said anything. In the meantime, don’t worry your pretty little head about it. Douglas will bounce back eventually--he always does.” Carolyn pushed her chair back and snagged her bag from the floor. “I’ll ring you when Gertie’s ready to fly again.” She was gone before he could open his mouth to protest.

Martin sat there a while longer before his stung pride melted into thought, and by the time he left the coffeeshop he had, if not an actual idea, at least the beginnings of one. “Douglas?” he called as he let himself in the house. “Do you have anything planned this afternoon?” 

“Actually,” Douglas’s voice floated back from the sitting room, and was followed by the man himself, for a change in something closely resembling his normal clothes, “I do. Won’t take me long, though, if you--” He was interrupted by the doorbell, when he went to answer.

“Ah,” a feminine voice at the door. “Dougie. Looking quite handsome, as always.”

“Helena.” Douglas’s voice held nothing in it, not even a touch of iciness.

She obviously wasn’t perturbed as she walked through the house as if she owned it. “Did you sign them?”

“I did,” he said, shutting the door and following her. “They’re on the table.” He paused as Helena and Martin made contact for the first time since the fateful meeting over brown sauce some time earlier. “Helena, I believe you know my friend, Martin Crieff. Martin, Helena Ri-- Stone.”

“Oh, yes. _Captain_ Crieff.” Martin didn’t flinch on Douglas’s behalf at the dig, but it was a near thing. They exchanged further pleasantries while Helena rifled through the papers Douglas handed her. “Ah, perfectly in order. I’m sure George will be thrilled to have a weekend up there.” She was very obviously watching Douglas for his reaction, and seemed disappointed when she got none...until she realized the cause. WIth a deceptively gentle hand, she reached out as if to stroke his fringe back. “Oh, poor Dougie. Are you having one of your pouty spells?”

Douglas for his part didn’t flinch--he didn’t show any emotion at all, just watched Helena with a cold eye as she patted his cheek and made faux sympathetic noises, though Martin could practically hear his spine stiffen. “If there’s nothing else?” he asked in the same placid tone.

“Oh, just one eensy thing,” Helena said. “That ring you gave me? It wasn’t listed in the papers, and I know we said we’d handle it unofficially, but I’ve given it to my Georgie now--she’s such a fan of costume jewelry, you know--and I was hoping you might do me the enormous favor of actually adding it to the list?” She pulled a folded piece of paper from her purse and smoothed it out on the table, holding the pen out to him as if it was a foregone conclusion. “I’ve had Johnny write it all down, so if you’d just sign and date here, Dougie darling…”

Douglas said nothing, just read quickly and signed where she indicated, handing her pen back and enduring the kiss on the cheek she gave him with the same blank expression. With a cheerful “Goodbye, Dougie” and another pointed “ _Captain_ ” in Martin’s general direction, Helena left. The silence that followed her was nearly deafening.

Martin stood there a moment at a loss before turning to the kettle and flicking it on. Douglas disappeared into the sitting room and was already stretched on the sofa with his book open by the time Martin made it in with their mugs. For his part, Douglas gave no indication that he was bothered at all by Helena’s visit--just murmured “Thank you,” and he went back to his book. It was with no small sense of relief that Martin left for a long-haul move.

That reprieve lasted as long as it took for the move to go horrendously wrong, which was approximately the moment Martin stepped up to the door to find the clients had left a note directing him to another location with vague directions that included “turn left where Johnson’s property ends” and “just over the fourth stone bridge (don’t count the brick ones).” But the real high point came when, on his way back to Fitton, the odd smell Martin had been ignoring for nearly six months turned into actual smoke, and the engine stuttered to the stop in God’s End, Norfolk, forty minutes from the nearest garage. Martin spent fifteen minutes dithering under the bonnet before admitting that he was a bit out of his league. With a sigh, he pulled out his phone and called AA, who promised to be out in an hour.

And they were, but the humming and concerned noises Geoff the mechanic made didn’t imbue Martin with an confidence in his van’s being moving any time soon--a concern that turned out to be well-founded when Geoff told him it would take at least a week to fix. Martin sighed and rang Douglas, grimacing when a check of his watch showed it was well after midnight. A steady stream of water made its way through the hole he’d torn in his jacket wrestling his way through the clients’ overgrown back garden and he shivered sharply. _Please answer. Please please please._

“Hello?” The Douglas on the other end of the phone didn’t sound as if he’d been asleep at all.

“Douglas?” Martin said. “It’s me. Martin.”

“Hello, Martin.” Douglas said nothing else--no teasing about finding the bed of some nubile young thing to crawl into, no comments about lyncathropy or vampirism, just the quiet pause, waiting for Martin to fill it. 

Martin took a deep breath. “I didn’t wake you, did I? Because I can call someone else, I just...You were the first person, but if you can’t I understand, I’ll just…”

“Martin,” Douglas said, with just the tiniest bit of impatience creeping into his tone. “What’s wrong?”

“The van broke down, and I’m stuck in Norwich. I know it’s a big imposition, but there’s no one else, so...could….could we meet somewhere? I could get a taxi and meet you halfway, if you don’t want to drive all the way, and I’m sorry to have to ask, but there’s a job on for tomorrow, and oh, God--” He was cut off by Douglas.

“One problem at a time. You know the Golden Lion in Huntingdon? Get a taxi to there, and I’ll meet you, alright? We’ll worry about the rest later.”

Martin nodded. “Th- thank you, Douglas. I know--” He swallowed down whatever he’d been about to say. “I’ll see you there. I should go--save up my battery.”

Douglas was waiting for him in the Lexus by the time the taxi dropped Martin off at the pub. Without a word, he paid the fare while Martin climbed in, relaxing against the seats that Douglas had already heated. They were silent as they pulled out of the car park and back onto the road, and Martin--to his chagrin--was asleep nearly instantly, barely waking up when Douglas pulled into his drive and prodded him into the house.

“Hate Norfolk.,” Martin said, edges of his words sliding into one another as he wandered down the hall. “‘svery…fen-y.”

“Mmmhmm,” was all Douglas said and steered him away from a collision with the wall. He stood outside the guest room and watched as Martin turned around to lean on the doorjamb.

“Thanks again,” Martin said. “Nice’f you to come get me.”

Douglas shrugged. “Couldn’t have left you out in any case,” he said. “Arthur’d never let me hear the end of it.” A short silence fell between them, and Martin opened his mouth, but couldn’t find the words to say what he wanted, finally settling for “Good night, Douglas,” and closing the door behind him. It wasn’t long before he was undressed and falling into bed, asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow. 

The next morning, Martin let himself doze an extra hour and a half after his alarm, burying his head under the pillows to block out the sunlight from curtains he’d forgotten to close. By the time he actually managed to drag himself up, Douglas was already in the kitchen, flipping an omelette onto a plate with practiced ease. “Morning,” Martin mumbled, rubbing sleep from his eye. He sat at the table and blinked at the food that suddenly appeared before him, mug of coffee steaming just within reach.

Douglas cracked two more eggs and started on an omelette for himself. “Morning. Your mobile’s buzzed a few times.” He added some of the chopped pepper and onion to his pan and watched it carefully, saying nothing further. Once it was finished, he snagged his tea and sat across from Martin, reading the paper between small bites.

Martin practically inhaled his before stretching across to pull his phone from the charger--though he didn’t remember putting it on the night before. He sighed as he listened to his voicemail and scrubbed a hand through his hair, as he listened to yet another customer explain they wouldn’t be needing his services, which, he remembered, was probably a good thing, as his van was still stuck in East Anglia. “Damn,” he muttered to himself after he’d deleted the messages, and snagged the pen from Douglas’s side of the table, scratching out figures on a sheet in Douglas’s “read” pile.

Across the table, Douglas folded the paper and set the last bit aside, picking up his mug to hold between his hands and leaning back. Most of his omelette sat uneaten on his plate. He said nothing, just sipped his tea with the same placid expression that had been molded to his face since Martin moved in and watched the pen move furiously across the page.

Finally, Martin circled a number and set the pen down, pushing himself back from the table and collecting the dirty dishes. “Thanks for letting me stay,” he said in lieu of explaining the job had been cancelled--he was sure Douglas had figured it out anyway. “I promise I’ll be out of your hair soon. Couple more days at the outside.” He squirted some soap in the sink and started the water, trying to ignore the flush he felt creeping up over his neck.

Douglas stood and drained his mug, setting it on the worktop and digging out a tea towel. “It’s nothing, Martin. Truly.” He paused and busied himself with drying a glass. He hesitated, then said, “In all actuality, it’s been…” The muscle in his cheek jumped a bit. “Helpful,” he finished with uncharacteristic feebleness.

Martin pondered that over scrubbing out the skillet. “Good,” he said, finally. “I’m….glad.” Another awkward pause, then “Is...is it getting any better? Or…” He let it trail off.

“Coming ‘round,” Douglas said to the knife he was drying. “Not terrific, but...better.”

“Good, good.” Martin wanted to say more, to ask more, but nothing he could think of sounded anything less than prying and intrusive and the words died on his tongue. The rest of the washing up was spent in quasi-awkward silence, and they quickly split for opposite ends of the house--Martin to his room and Douglas to resume his place on the sofa. 

Eventually, Martin expended his ability to stay in one place for long, and the four walls of the room began to feel claustrophobic. Just when he thought he’d have to brave the awkwardness of the kitchen just for something to keep himself occupied, there was the sound of the front door opening and closing. Martin waited a few minutes and when he heard nothing but settling silence, sighed and pulled out his manual and marking pens, letting the tension from before slide off his shoulders. 

It was several hours before he surfaced from the soothing familiarity of the text and headed to the kitchen in search of food. As he walked past the sitting room, he caught a glimpse of something that made him pause--a tuft of dark hair sticking up over the back of the sofa. “Douglas,” he said as he made his way into the room. “I’m making lunch. Do you--” He broke off and stood there in chagrined surprise for a moment.

Contrary to Martin’s expectations, Douglas wasn’t reading or listening to the radio or even typing out a message on his phone. In fact, he was fast asleep, mouth open a bit, arm hung limply off the armrest, feet propped up on the coffee table. And curled up on his chest was Astrid, whose coming home had been heralded by the opening door before. She opened one green eye at Martin when he came in, then shifted slightly and went back to sleep. For his part, Douglas didn’t even move, dead to the world. His stillness gave Martin an opportunity to observe the dark circles under his eyes, the pinched look to his brow, the wan cast to his too-thin face--telltale signs of a worn-out Douglas. Signs that Martin had missed because Douglas had been virtually unseen in his own house.

Martin stood there frozen in indecision for a long moment. On the one hand, he was certain that Douglas’s current position couldn’t be comfortable, and would probably end up leaving him stiff and sore when he woke up. On the other, there was every indication of this being the first bit of restful sleep he’d had in quite some time. Eventually, Martin decided to let him get as much benefit as he could from the unexpected nap and went out for lunch and to retrieve his van, though not without leaving a note in case Douglas woke up to find him gone.

By the time he made it to Norfolk, rescued his van, and came back, Douglas was in the kitchen preparing something at the stove, something soft and old and French on the radio. Martin considered joining him for a brief second, but erred on the side of caution and turned to leave him to it.

“Come in, Martin,” Douglas’s voice came from across the room, though he didn’t turn away from the stove. “I can hear you worrying from over here.”

Martin smoothed the chagrined look from his face and dropped himself into a chair at the table. “Sorry,” he said, without really knowing what he was apologizing for. He fiddled with the salt and pepper shakers on the table a moment before forcing his hands still in his lap. 

Douglas came over with two mugs in hand and settled one in front of Martin, taking the seat opposite. A silence settled over them for a moment, only the tiniest bit less comfortable than usual. Finally, Douglas took a sip and looked somewhere near Martin’s left ear. “How was the job?” he asked, wrapping his hands around his mug as if they needed warming.

“Job?” Martin asked and took a sip of his own, surprised when it was the smell of chocolate that greeted him and not tea. It was rich and flavourful, just a hint of something different from the Horlicks his mother would make. “This is good. What’s in it?”

Douglas drummed his fingers once and looked away. “Vanilla and cinnamon.” He said nothing further, and looked away out the window.

“Ah,” Martin said and took another sip. “What job?”

Douglas looked back and when their eyes met, Martin realized just how long it had been since they’d actually talked face-to-face. He was so absorbed in reading the lines at the corners of Douglas’s eyes and around his mouth, the slight slope to his shoulders, the unusually untidy sweep of fringe across his forehead that he missed Douglas’s answer. “Pardon?” he asked, when it was clear he wasn’t keeping up his end of the conversation.

“The job you were on when you left,” Douglas repeated.

Martin felt his ears starting to flush. “I wasn’t on a job,” he said. “Just, I saw you sleeping and I wanted you to have...that is, I thought you might like...You looked tired,” he finished in a rush. “I left you a note.”

It was Douglas’s turn to look vaguely embarrassed. “Ah. Sorry. Caught me unawares.” He buried his nose in his mug for a moment and looked more gathered for it after.

Martin was saved from having to reply by the buzzing of his phone from somewhere in the vicinity of the front room. By the time he made it there and dug his mobile from the depths of his coat pocket, whoever had called had hung up. He sat back down with a huff and listened to the message, feeling a grin spread across his face. It lasted as long as it took him to come back to the kitchen and drop into his chair, seeing Douglas again. Suddenly, he found himself unreasonably reluctant to leave.

“Everything alright?” Douglas asked from behind his hot chocolate.

Martin nodded, lining up the edges of the newspaper spread on the table idly. “Landlord. I can move back in tomorrow.” He risked a glance across the table.

“Ah. Good news then.” He tilted his head and regarded Martin. “Isn’t it?” A note of confusion crept into his tone.

“Yeah.” Martin hesitated a moment. “Are you sure you don’t need...” He shook his head and studiously avoided Douglas’s gaze.

His aborted question was met with the quick _tap, tap, tap_ of Douglas’s fingers on the table. “I’m fine,” Douglas finally said. “I appreciate your concern, but…” He shrugged. “I’m alright. On the tail end, in any case. Don’t worry about me.”

Martin regarded him for a long moment. The lines around Douglas’s eyes and mouth were still there, but had softened a bit, and while the dark circles of sleeplessness weren’t any smaller, the man himself seemed more awake, and brighter than he’d been for as long as Martin had been living in the house. “Alright, then,” he said. “If you’re sure.”

“I am,” Douglas said, in a tone that made it clear he wasn’t discussing the issue any further. He drained his mug and stood up to wash it quickly before saying goodnight and excusing himself to his bedroom. It was only several minutes later, when his own stomach growled, that Martin realized Douglas had left before dinner. He considered making something for the two of them, but gave it up as a lost cause and retreated to his own-- the _guest_ room, he reminded himself.

The next morning, Douglas’s door remained firmly shut while Martin carried what little he’d brought with him to his van. Once he’d packed it away, he brushed his hands and looked at the door, hesitating. He should go and say goodbye, shouldn’t he? But Douglas had his door closed and clearly didn’t want visitors… 

His dithering proved useful for a change, as Douglas came out with a wrapped parcel in his hands. Douglas looked Martin over, eyes sliding to the van before settling nearly normally on Martin’s. “All packed up?” he asked, with uncharacteristic redundancy.

Martin nodded, shifting a bit on his feet. “Yeah. Thought it best to get in before the students. There’ll be a queue for the shower.” He gave Douglas a wan smile.

Douglas nodded and held out the parcel. Martin took it and gave him a curious look. “Does this need mailing?”

“No,” Douglas said. “It’s for you. A...thank you of sorts. For hel--” He broke off and swallowed, looking away momentarily. “For taking care of the house.” His gaze met Martin’s again, and there was a warmth there that Martin only now realized had been missing these long weeks. “Thank you.” He held out his hand, and Martin shook it.

“Any time at all,” Martin said, putting as much sincerity into his voice as he could. 

Douglas nodded and stuck his hands back in his pockets, nodding to the van. “Be safe,” he said. “Don’t want to have to come fetch you from a bog.” 

Martin gave him a nod in return and got in his van, driving off. By the time he got to his house, had moved and unpacked everything, and eaten dinner, he’d nearly forgotten about the package, and only remembered when he bumped into his desk trying to balance his plate and mug and it fell to the floor. He took the dishes downstairs and came back to sit on his bed, holding it in his hands. It was soft and bulky, and he almost expected a plush polar bear or some other ridiculous thing.

But when he opened it, he couldn’t help but smile in surprise. Somehow, Douglas had managed to find the time to procure an actual leather aviator’s jacket, with butter-soft leather and a pair of RAF wings stitched onto the front. Martin shrugged it on and it fit perfectly. _Of course_ , he thought, and stuffed his hands into the pocket.

A crinkle of paper greeted him, and he pulled out a slip of paper, the size of a receipt. He nearly threw it away before he noticed Douglas’s distinctive scrawl.

_Martin, thank you for being my thousandth man. You helped in ways I couldn’t begin to tell you. I hope this jacket serves you in good stead--at least it has only the holes it’s meant to. WIth my sincere gratitude and friendship, Douglas._

And there, on the back, some lines from a poem that Martin read as he hung the jacket up reverently:  


_One man in a thousand, Solomon says._  
Will stick more close than a brother.  
And it's worth while seeking him half your days  
If you find him before the other.

Nine hundred and ninety-nine depend  
On what the world sees in you,  
But the Thousandth Man will stand your friend  
With the whole round world agin you.

He smiled softly and pulled out his phone, sending a single text before turning off the light and climbing into bed.

_My privilege._


End file.
